


The Right Time

by softyellowlight



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: First Time, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26154778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softyellowlight/pseuds/softyellowlight
Summary: Mostly, it’s not the right time for them.Sometimes, it is.
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 480





	The Right Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授翻】【信条Tenet】The Right Time 时机已到](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26335255) by [spacemonkey42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey42/pseuds/spacemonkey42)



_‘It’s not the right time,’_ thinks Neil.  
He stirs his tea and watches the Protagonist take a sip of the scalding black coffee Neil’s just made him.  
The Protagonist is hunkered over a laptop, organising the delivery of some mission equipment. He’s so focused, he looks so intense, he swears under his breath at something on the screen.  
 _‘God, he’s beautiful,’_ thinks Neil.  
He wants to go stand behind the Protagonist and rub his tense shoulders, wants to draw aside the collar of his expensive-as-hell suit and kiss his neck, whisper something filthy in his ear. He wants to shut the laptop and shove it aside and straddle the Protagonist’s lap and-  
It’s not the right time.  
The Protagonist barely knows him yet. Near his beginning, nearing Neil’s end.

The Protagonist looks up for a moment and meets Neil’s staring eyes.  
“Good coffee. Thanks,” he murmurs. He smiles, but it looks forced. Nothing like the star bright beams that will come later (earlier) like when they’re lying in bed together, fingers intertwined, still breathing hard.  
Neil slowly pulls his gaze away as the Protagonist keeps typing. He glances at the clock, which reads 2:32AM, and resents it not for showing him the present hour but for how much time they’re wasting on ‘saving the world’ instead of with each other.  
The Protagonist must have noticed Neil checking the clock and looks too. “Fuck, it’s late,” he remarks.  
 _‘You have no idea,’_ Neil wants to say.

***

 _‘It’s not the right time,’_ thinks the Protagonist.  
He’s finally (freshly) recruited Neil, and Neil’s just passed one of the series of tests the Protagonist has designed for new recruits to take (but of course he passed). Neil is putting on a brave face, as always, and would no doubt look cool, calm and collected to anyone who hasn’t known him for as long as the Protagonist has known him. He can tell it’s a facade and Neil is totally reeling inside.  
The Protagonist hates what he’s doing (has done), hates effectively torturing the man he loves. But he’s acutely aware of the fact that there’s no other way. It’s not about them, and it never has been (will be).

Neil is putting his coat on now, as he prepares to leave the facility they’ve been in, and the Protagonist can see his hands are trembling while he does up the buttons - ever so lightly as Neil works hard to control it, but trembling nevertheless. The Protagonist wants to take Neil’s hands in his owns, bring his lovely fingers to his lips and kiss them one by one until they stop shaking and never allow them to begin again. He wants to hold Neil tight against his chest and tell him ‘I’m sorry’ and promise him no more fear. But that would be a lie, and it’s not the right time.

Neil looks different at this time, more innocent perhaps, but his features somehow even sharper than those of the Neil who will be (was) his own. He hasn’t got a clue what’s ahead (behind). Yes, fear and pain, but happiness too.  
The Protagonist claps a hand on Neil’s shoulder as he walks out the door. It’ll have to do.  
“Well done,” he says, somewhat gruffly.  
Neil doesn’t reply.  
“I mean it,” the Protagonist adds.  
Understatement of the century.

***

 _‘It’s not the right time,’_ thinks Neil.  
They’re at some swanky soirée, sometime fairly close to the middle ground for both he and the Protagonist. That fleeting, fated, golden zone.  
But they’re here for business. _‘It’s always fucking business,’_ he sighs to himself. They're trying to convince some aristocrat in the know to drop more dough on the next (previous) phase of the project.

The Protagonist is with her now, across the ballroom. He’s leaning in close, laughing at something she’s said, his hand on her diamond-braceletted arm, as if they’re beloved intimate acquaintances rather than business associates, mere pawns to one another.  
Neil knows it isn’t real, this chemistry the Protagonist is dialling up to eleven as he finalises their finances in this safe public setting, but he has to admit it’s still enough to make him jealous.  
He takes another sip - well, it’s a gulp really - of his vodka tonic and looks up at ceiling. It’s vaulted and ornate, covered in finely painted frescoes. There’s one of God, surrounded by angels, and Neil can’t help but replace God with the Protagonist in his head. Bending the universe to his will, seemingly close sometimes and impossibly distant at others. At once loving and indifferent. In control and with no control at all.

 _‘Fuck it,’_ Neil thinks, finishing his drink. How many has he had? He’s lost count. He wishes not for the first (last) time he could be like the Protagonist and stay sober on the job but that’s not him. _‘Fuck the right time. I’m going to do it.’_  
He’s going to walk over to the Protagonist and subtly, not so subtly, take his arm and drag him to the beautiful marble bathroom he knows is just down the hall and get on his knees and-

The Protagonist is walking over to him.  
The aristocrat turns and begins chatting with an old Italian couple who have immediately approached to take his place.  
The Protagonist crosses the space to Neil in a few confident strides.  
“Boom,” he says quietly. “That’s how it’s done, baby.”  
Neil can’t help but laugh. And he knows the ‘baby’ is just a turn of phrase, isn’t quite endearment directed at him, not yet, but it will be.  
And for the moment that’s enough.  
It isn’t the right time but it’s coming soon.

***

 _‘It’s not the right time,'_ the Protagonist thinks.  
They need rest. There are so few opportunities for rest in this bitch of a game they play. There are flights, sure, and the occasional long car ride, or block of a few hours between the end of a briefing and the beginning of a push. But those times are usually filled with too much anxiety, too much to go over, too much to commit to memory, or too cramped, too claustrophobic to rest. He struggles to get comfortable.  
 _‘Am I ever though?’_ the Protagonist asks himself. _‘Yeah,’_ comes an answer from somewhere deep inside. _‘You’re comfortable with Neil.’_

They’re sharing a hotel room. It’s a safety thing. One can stand guard while the other gets some shut eye. If they’re together, they slash the chances of one being abducted or murdered while the other lies unaware in another room. The room is big and warm and modern. Two king sized beds, opulent chairs and a large inlaid table, a spa in the bathroom, balcony that affords not only a great view of the city lights but a quick escape if need be.

They were talking earlier - recapping the deal that has been (will be) sealed tonight, at the aristocrat’s party, the Protagonist is relieved to have this lot of funding sorted - but it’s fallen quiet. Not in an awkward way though, just in the still way it can between people who are familiar with each other and don’t feel the need to self-consciously fill every space with small talk anymore. _‘Comfortable,’_ the Protagonist catches himself thinking again.  
He sighs. They have whatever’s left of the night to rest before their morning flight. He leans back on the red lounge he’s sitting on and silently curses the fact he still feels so awake.

Neil brings him a glass of whiskey, honey brown and glistening. It feels like his way of reminding the Protagonist he’s off the job right now, they’ve done well and it’s okay to wind down like this, indulge himself a little.  
As he takes the glass, the Protagonist can’t help but notice Neil lingers as he passes it over, their fingers touching for a second too long.  
He downs a mouthful of the smooth, spiced liquid as Neil sits beside him, unnecessarily close for the size of the couch, their thighs pressed together.  
The Protagonist sets his whiskey on the coffee table in front of them and settles back.  
Neil inhales for a moment, like he’s making a decision, then lies his head on the Protagonist’s shoulder. They fit perfectly, it’s like they have done (will do) this forever.

 _‘It’s the right time.’_  
The Protagonist turns his head and Neil sits up a little, his face still just inches away, eyes almost glowing.  
He closes the gap. Their lips press together and it instantly feels right - timeless, familiar, like waves meeting the shore - even though it’s new to one of them.  
The Protagonist cards his fingers through Neil’s hair as their kisses deepen, Neil’s hands on the sides of his face, pulling them together, as if they might drift apart at any moment, as if willing them into one being.  
The Protagonist rises slowly, still hungrily kissing the man he loves (has loved, will love) and walks them towards one of the beds. He turns them around and pushes Neil onto it, gently, firmly, then beams down for a moment at the messy-haired, wide-eyed, beautiful brave man below him.

It’s never the right time.  
It’s always the right time.  
Fuck time.  
All they need is now.

**Author's Note:**

> I spent like three minutes on this, I’m sorry, but I saw the movie yesterday and can’t stop thinking about them so just had to add something to the new best ship.


End file.
